You Don't Hate Me
by PickledMirror
Summary: Dan Howell is a young, isolated pianist who lives life loathing anyone who crosses his path. Phil Lester is a famous actor, born into a family of fame. He's the most prevalent flirt of the modern age, and beloved by many. All except Dan Howell. He hates him more than anyone could know. But one October afternoon, the two boys collide, and an undeniable spark is created. ***ON HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

Dan Howell had always hated the tabloids. They were constantly delving into the personal lives of the disgustingly rich and famous, typically those of people who just didn't exactly matter in the grand scheme of life. Sadly, they were the ones who produced the so-called "just right" amount of drama for the crocodiles of the media to hungrily feed on. They slurped up gossip and rumors, and fed it right to the public. The public, who were so starved for anything of even mild interest, ate it all right up. Just like with candy, they were always ravenous for more. Dan Howell found it disgusting. But it was quite possible there was another reason behind Dan Howell's hatred.

Dan Howell, the son of two brilliant scientists known throughout the world as saviors. They were the discoverers of the cure, after all. Maybe it could be said they weren't as important as whoever would find the cure to cancer, but it was argued that the termination of the common cold was just as important. And when "little" illnesses such as that started getting cured, people began to feel hope. And when people started feeling hopeful, things could be accomplished.

Dan's parents were worshipped throughout the scientific community and beloved by humanity as a whole. No one could find any fault in them. Not even the celebrity shows and magazines, who picked apart anyone in the spotlight. No one, that is, except their very son.

Dan had grown up raised more by nannies and sitters than his own parents, and knew more about his caregivers than his mother or father. Up until he was eight years old, his parents spent most days working at their labs or meeting with other scientists. They were already known as the greatest couple in science in the new age and had their own company full of sterile laboratories and employees in stark white coats before they even made their revolutionary discovery. All the details on how they came across the cure were never fully revealed, but it was a mass breakthrough. A few weeks after Dan's lonely eighth birthday, which his parents had been yet again absent for, his nanny got an excited video call from his mother.

 _"We did it!"_ his mother had cried excitedly through the screen. _"We finally found a cure!"_

Dan's parents, the power couple of the sciences, had found the cure for the common cold. After years of tests and trials unmentioned by the news, they finally did it. Perhaps Dan's perpetual loneliness growing up could be considered a minor casualty in the grand scheme of things, considering what had resulted in his parents' constant absence.

Dan only remembered bits and pieces of that day. He remembered his mother squealing a whole lot, her face red and flushed, and tears running down his father's cheeks. By then, he understood they were tears not of sadness but of joy, which only caused himself more pain. His parents had _never_ been that emotional about him.

In the days and weeks and years that followed, Dan's life drastically changed. He was moved from their mansion on the outskirts of London, to a grand penthouse in the center of the city. He was hustled from gala to gala, party to party. Always dressed up and clean-cut, he was the adorable and well-behaved little boy of the esteemed Howell duo. As he grew older, he changed into a handsome young man with a genius knack towards music and a great talent of being the best-looking person at events. One thing, however, remained the same: his parents and their lack of love.

His parents were a little disappointed that he didn't have an affinity towards the sciences like they had, but spent so little time with him to even think about his life choices. Dan had few memories of his childhood that actually involved his parents.

The media branded them as "The Family of Science" and never, in the years that followed their great discovery, did the magazines and television shows find something wrong with them. The Howells were an exceptional pair, and Dan was their quiet and almost angelic child. But as much as the world talked about their success and glory, they always seemed to gloss over the fact that Dan was neglected by his parents, who loved science and fame more than their own son. And Dan hated the tabloids because of it.

Never did they focus on how his family was just stapled at the seams, or how they were made of the fakest love. Never did they focus on the emptiness in Dan's eyes, or the false smiles plastered across his face. Never did they focus on how Dan didn't even know his mother's favorite food or his father's favorite color. Instead, the highlights went to their minor discoveries, and constant mentions of their greatest. And when they weren't in the news, phony movie stars and over-the-top singers scrambled for the spotlight.

However, Dan was actually quite content with staying home and doing not much of anything. He had his piano and a huge collection of books and movies to pass the time with, and he had school growing up. An elite private school, of course, but a school, and an escape, nonetheless.

When he turned eighteen, his parents bought him his own flat, and secured him a spot in prestigious law school. However, this just caused prominent misery, and soon Dan dropped out. He continued to attend events for the sake of his parents, and he also became more public about his music.

His unique piano work soon became all the rage, and he was suddenly a rising star. He was beloved by fans of the instrument, of course, but his family status brought him the attention of the younger generations and soon his music was somehow mainstream. Born into a celebrated couple and raised amidst the fame, the stardom was nothing new. However, he was still disgusted by his fellow celebrities, especially in the music industry, and for that he was set apart.

He attended social events and get-togethers just for pure cheese and the applicability to his growing resume, but never for actual enjoyment. He spent most of the time leaning against the wall, untouched drink in his hand, loathing each and every one of the people practically wherever he went. He had an ever-evolving list of people he would despise even if he were the last human on Earth, and was constantly replacing people with those worse than the previous. He did, however, have a common subject for his antipathy. It was a boy who never got knocked off the list, forever to be the front most target of Dan's hatred. His name was Phil Lester.

Phil Lester was the younger of two spoiled sons, the little boy of a glamorous has-been movie star married to a wealthy politician. One might think, being yet another child of a newsworthy couple, just a few years older than Dan, Phil would've experienced the same isolation that Dan had growing up. One could never be more wrong.

The boy basked in the fame. He lapped it up like a cat with cream, purring in the spotlight. He did work in the movies here and there, but his fame came from, not only his family, but the many relationships he constantly found himself in. Many different relationships, occasionally at the same time. He became infamously known as the young Casanova of the new age, with gentlemanly manners and dazzling blue eyes. His black hair styled always in his iconic fringe, pale skin, and gorgeous eyes were practically legendary, and he acquired more fangirls than he could count.

That's why, on a fine February afternoon at a premiere for a movie he played a sidekick, the whole world was floored as he strolled in hand in hand with one of his male costars. That completely changed the game, as no one would be safe anymore. Anyone could fall for him, and now anyone had the chance he would reciprocate the feelings. Just his blue eyes alone could entice anyone.

Nearly every time he was seen in public, he had someone new under his arm. Whether it was male or female really seemed to depend on the day. He seemed to be making his rounds through the world of the famous, but not once did he manage to charm Dan. But that was because Dan _hated his fucking guts._

It wasn't specifically Phil, per say, more so his actions and the reputation that followed. Dan hated people like him. Passionately. Love was supposed to matter, he'd decided years before, not be thrown about like an old ball. And to Dan, Phil did exactly that. He loved easily, and lightly, and casually, and it repulsed Dan to no end.

Never had the brunet spoken to the dark-haired actor, yet he burned with a hatred for him so strong that it seared the skin and caught sparks on his fingertips. In all honesty, Dan probably spent _too_ much time thinking about the blue eyed boy, no matter how hateful the thoughts may have been.

But Dan's thoughts could only be filled with hostility so much, and he often spent his time thinking about no one at all.

Until one day, the paths of the two boys met. Quite literally.

 _..._

Dan's POV

I grip my cardboard coffee cup from Starbucks close to my chest. Steam is rising from the hot liquid through the tiny opening, fogging up my glasses. It's really quite irritating, and it takes quite a bit of self-control not to rip them off and toss them to the side. It's not like they help me see anyways.

 _The lengths I go_ , I silently think. Standing in the middle of London, it'd be hard not to be recognized as the _great_ Dan Howell, famed pianist and child of the _even greater_ Howell duo. For a disguise, I'm clothed in all black, which in itself is not different from my typical attire at all, but an orange-brown workman's coat is slung over my shoulders along with matching boots, and glasses and a cap adorn my head.

I glance up from my coffee and peer impassively around me yet again. I'm leaning against a nearly barren tree, leaves skittering around me. I'm on the edge of a park, a park whose name has escaped my brain and I can't, for the life of me, remember. People mill around me. I can hear laughs and shouts from every directions, and the air is bright and crisp. October winds brush across my cheek, and leaves whirl around me. It's a ridiculously stereotypical autumn day; the smell of pumpkin spice and cinnamon has run rampant since the 1st and London has been very orange with the changing of the leaves.

No one has stopped to stare at me in curiosity, and I've hardy received any suspicious looks from passerby. I decide I've been in the cold for long enough when a particularity harsh breeze presses against my face, and I push myself away from the tree with one hand. I take a quick sip of my coffee, which is in the other, and immediately regret it.

" _Fuck!"_ I hiss under my breath as the burning liquid scalds my tongue. With a grimace still on my face, I begin to walk back to my flat. My gait is unhurried but not obnoxiously slow, and, after confirming with a brief glance around me, I have not drawn any unnecessary attention to myself.

I walk out of the park and through London, my head down. I ignore everyone and everything and instead keep my eyes on my shoes. Noise grows as I head further into the city: traffic full of buses and car horns paired with the constant rumble of people laughing, shouting, talking. I pick up my pace; I cannot wait to get home.

I'm so focused, however, on getting home, that I don't even see a dark haired boy a little older than me right in front of me.

First I'm just walking, adjusting my fake glasses for the hundredth time, and then I'm plowing into somebody else, heads colliding. I almost drop my drink as I stumble backward, just in time to see an expensive silver iPhone crash to the ground. Concern for the coffee automatically fades and I immediately drop to my knees, mumbling apology after apology. The phone doesn't seem to be in too bad of shape as I pick it up, but as I stand and lift my head to face the person, I immediately wish it were. Standing in front of me with his practically copyrighted smile and perfect hair, is _none other_ than Phil Lester.

I groan and shove the phone at him, before turning on my heel and walking the other way. My flat is actually the other way, but I would go far out of my way if it meant avoiding that boy. My steps now hurried and quick, I keep my head up. My glasses, crooked and bent from the collision, hang loosely on my face. More irritated than ever, I yank them off and shove them in my pocket.

I hear Phil calling out from behind me, but I ignore him. I hope and pray he's not following me.

After a moment, I decide I'm probably in the clear. I turn around to look behind me, and find in dismay Phil still attempting to jog through the crowded street to catch up with me. I groan again, irritation wafting off of me.

I try to turn around again, but he somehow reaches me and grabs the sleeve of my coat. I glare at his hand on my arm with a sneer, but he doesn't seem to care.

"Dan!" He exclaims breathlessly, as though we're old friends on a first-name basis. I feel my face shift into a mask of disdain.

"We've never actually talked to one another, but I absolutely _love_ your music!" He gushed. "Oh! And kudos to your parents, too!" My lip curls in disgust when he says this, and I yank my arm away.

"It's so great to finally meet you!" Phil babbles. I straighten my coat.

"The pleasure's _all_ mine." I grumble, sarcasm dripping from every word. I take another sip from my nearly forgotten coffee, which has cooled down to a more acceptable temperature. He just smiles big, not picking up on my tone. I'm feeling horrendously awkward standing in the middle of crowded London, so I decide, since I'm probably never speak to him again, I'll tell Phil what I think of him.

"Actually, I hate people like you. People who think love is a game. People who go through other people like models go through clothes. Really, I hate _you_. So no, fuck off, it's _not_ great to finally meet you." I snap, channeling my dramatic side. Phil blinks, smile frozen. I turn away and begin to walk away, but I hear Phil burst out laughing behind me. Next thing I know, he's next to me, matching my steps stride by stride.

His smile is even bigger now, and his eyes shine. I jerk my attention away from him, and continue walking. I ignore him, despite the fact that he just seems to have a sort of bright _p_ _resence_ about him. I glare at him out of the corner of my eye.

"Nah," he starts. "You don't hate me. You just haven't warmed up to me yet." I turn my head and look down on him scornfully. He's smirking, almost smugly.

"I'm pretty sure I know who I hate and do not hate." I retort. Phil just smiles. _Arrogant prick_ , I think to myself antagonistically.

"You don't hate me. You just don't know me yet." He reiterates. I roll my eyes and toss my cup into a bin we pass by. He nudges my shoulder, and I immediately recoil. He doesn't notice. "But you will. It'll be great!"

* * *

 **A/N: Hey everyone! So this is something I've been thinking about for a while, and I finally decided to finish it after days of procrastination. I have lots of ideas for it in the future, so let me know in the reviews what you guys think! See you all later!**


	2. Chapter 2

Dan's POV

Phil pesters me all the way home. Rambling about random things ranging from Buffy to encounters with crazy strangers to video games, I tune him out to the best of my abilities. How he manages to cram all that in one fifteen minute walk, I will never know.

But as he talks, I'm starting to realize he's completely different than I previously assumed. No longer was he a chivalrous actor with mating tendencies adjacent to those of rabbits, but a dorky, optimistic nerd. Perhaps my previous malice has been unjustified?

When he talks about something he loves, like an anime or pancakes, he emits a brightness, a fluorescence, a happiness so true and pure it's a rarity in this dark, dismal world. Sparks dance off the shimmer of his fair skin, the glow of his joy undeniable. He might as well be sun, the goddamn star at the center of the solar system. He could bring life to Planet Earth with just his smile alone. And his eyes; Jesus _Christ_.

His eyes take on a whole new shimmer when he begins to speak about something he has a love and passion for. An ever changing swirl of blue with green and gold is combined with a brilliant shine, and something magical is revealed. You could go swimming in those eyes. Truly, in just those alone, I could fall into the undeniable void of love.

Wait. _What?_

Phil talks for the entirety of the walk back to my flat, keeping pace with me for the whole time as he casually strolls buoyantly. I silently wonder, in honest curiosity not marred by scorn or ill will, how he can be so full of life when he's well aware of the soul-sucking media and paparazzi could be at every turn. And they truly are, but not just at the corners. On the straight streets and behind newspapers in outdoor cafes, in phone booths and behind windows. Dressed in dark coats and sunglasses to match or stereotypical tourist costumes with shirts blaring thick slogans of "I heart London" and "I went to London and all I got was this lousy tee shirt." I didn't even know they still _had_ shirts like that. Ridiculous, really, the lengths they go. Some of them, however, are not so demure in their charade. They bear no disguises at all, and instead grin sharp-toothed smiles and wave about flashing cameras.

Phil takes no notice of them. Or, if he does, he doesn't acknowledge it. He's dressed casually, and anyone on the street could recognize him as the attractive bit actor that seems to be in every other blockbuster these days. He's talking so vibrantly, and is so unaware of everyone else, that no one stopped him for a picture or autograph. No one has stopped me either, though I am a tad cleverer about my ensemble than him. But I know the paparazzi will easily figure it out. There's not many other six-foot-tall men with curly brown hair that the _great and famous Phil Lester_ would associate with.

We finally make it to my flat, just as Phil is wrapping up a rant about Starbucks, for some unknown reason. I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief. I stop, and begin to dig in my jacket pocket for my phone and my keys, hoping he gets the hint. He doesn't.

Phil is still standing there when I pull my house key out and insert it into the lock. I turn slowly and stare at him. He's grinning faintly, almost coyly. I narrow my eyes at him.

"Erm, this is my house," I say, slightly cringing as I hear my tone. I sound like a mother reprimanding her child. I attempt to screw my face up into a more irritated expression and say, impertinently, "Jesus. I would prefer to step inside my flat without you on my arm, Phil."

His face falls a little. Did he expect me to invite him in? His smile, however, immediately reappears for some unknown reason, and I want to slap myself. How am I am not being clear to him?

"Okay! I'll see you at Leon's party, yeah?" He asks cheerfully. I groan again, not even caring he can hear and see me. Leon Tucker, one of our mutual acquaintances. He makes his own indie movies every year that art festivals adore and somehow knows Joss Whedon. He requests songs for whatever movie he's working on at the moment whenever he sees me, and has been known to attempt to cast Phil more than a few times. I avoid the majority of Leon's parties, which he throws at least twice a month with A-listers to D-listers as guests, and anyone in between. However, I'm a mandatory invite and I haven't been to the past three, so I suppose it would be best if I did actually go. But Phil, of course, would be going to.

"Jesus, that's tonight?" I ask, already knowing the answer. He nods, eyes big.

"Yeah, yeah, you'll see me. Probably standing in the corner by the punch, but you'll see me." I respond tiredly, somehow drained of all energy despite the coffee I just finished.

"Great!" He replies with a smile, yet again bursting with unexplainable happiness. "Do you reckon they got any good pictures?" By 'they', I assume he means the paparazzi.

I roll my eyes. "I doubt any were good, but I know they got some. Now if you'll excuse me, I have things to do. Goodbye, Phil." I say coldly. He doesn't pick up on it.

"Alright, see you!" He says, already turning and walking jovially back in the direction we came from. I watch his quirky smile transform back into the flirtatious smirk I'm so used to seeing on the covers of trashy magazines when I go on my midnight grocery trips. He turns and waves, and a shard of that previous friendliness slips back into his smile, but his supposedly permanent grin reappears as he turns away to face the world. I feel like I'm filled with bubbles about to burst.

"Yeah, see you." I mumble, ducking my head as I unlock my door and step inside. A strange feeling is building up in my gut that I really don't want to think about. I'm confused, too. Never had I heard of Phil being such a dorky nerd. He had always been described as a dashing lady's man, or a seductive actor, or a player with a warm heart, or _something_ that was not a _huge fucking dork_.

I trudge into my flat, already dreading the party despite the fact that it's still in a few hours yet. I think back to the conversation Phil and I had about the paparazzi and pull out my phone. I scroll through a few different news sites guaranteed to have celebrity drama. Sure enough, there's already two articles about Phil and I, as it appears they somehow managed to get shots of my face. I sigh. I also have three missed calls from my publicist and several messages from a few different friends asking about Phil and I.

Shoving my phone into my jeans pocket, I shrug off my coat and kick off the boots. I finally get to yank off the hat, and I pull the now-bent glasses from the pocket of the coat before tossing it over the back of a kitchen chair. I can deal with it later.

I glance around the apartment. There's a shiny white kitchen with big silver appliances at the front of the flat, and a big island with three chairs too many take up the majority of the floor space. The kitchen opens up to a lounge with huge windows and a few simple leather sofas with a glass coffee table and a white shag rug. A wide television stretches across the opposite wall. Why I need multiple, I shall never know. Peggy picked them out, not me. Down the hall are is the master bedroom, equipped with a piano and a bathroom, and a bathroom along with guest bedroom. Everything is white and black and grey and barren and horrible, and I hate every part of it. Peggy, my publicist, personal manager, and everything in between, convinced me to buy it.

It's too big for just me, and despite Peggy claiming it's perfect for parties of all sizes, I don't actually _have_ parties, so it's pointless.

Think of the devil. My phone starts vibrating again, and, of course, it's fucking Peggy. I wander into the lounge and flop down on one of the sofas, and finally answer.

"Fucking finally! Daniel James _Howell_!" Peggy screeches. I pull the mobile away from my ear. The distance between the calls crackles, but the air has become thick with her anger. I put her on speaker and set the phone on the table in front of me, and sit up and lean forward. I consider turning the telly on, just to annoy Peggy, but decide against it at the last minute.

" _Why_ the _hell_ were you with _Phil Lester_?" Peggy hisses angrily through the phone. I roll my eyes before closing them, almost in defeat, and lean my head back of the sofa.

"I don't _know_ , Pegs, he just started talking to me and he wouldn't go away."

"This isn't grade school, Howell! Your reputation is on the line."

If my eyes were open, I would roll them. "My reputation? How does talking to an actor affect my reputation?" I actually know the answer, it doesn't have to do with talking to actors in general but rather talking to that specific actor, but I honestly don't even care anymore. I love Peggy, honestly, she was a family friend growing up and has always been there, but I cannot deal with the business side of her sometimes. She's rather vexing.

"Talking to someone like Phil Lester jeopardizes this whole, 'pained, lonely, piano player who doesn't date yet writes the saddest songs about heartbreak' thing you've got going on!"

"But I am a pained, lonely, piano player who doesn't date yet writes the saddest songs about heartbreak." I say indignantly.

"That's not what I meant-Daniel, I swear to God, if you don't stop being so difficult-I mean Phil is not the person we want for your image now. The whole 'dejected pianist' is really selling!"

I open my eyes and sit forward again. "Why not?" I ask for some reason unknown to even me.

"Dan!" She sighs in annoyance. Her resolve is crumbling. "Because you are one of the few celebrities he _hasn't_ been with, and I intended keep it that way!"

I pick up the phone. "You know, Pegs, I love you and all, but you don't control my life as much as you think you do. I'll tell you if anything happens at Leon's party tonight." I hang up and toss the phone to the side. After a moment of consideration, however, I pick the phone back up and open up a search browser. I type in, _Dan Howell and Phil Lester_. I am immediately bombarded with article after article, and plenty of pictures. One of the photos in particular catches my eye.

It's taken from an angle, but somehow both Phil and I are in the shot. We're walking, my hands tucked into my pockets and hat pulled down low. Phil is smiling at me, in the middle of saying something to me, his eyes bright as he looks up. I blink. He looks so, I don't know, _happy_. And I appear to be smiling too, a faint grin playing at the corners of my mouth. Our steps look to be in sync, and, I admit, we do look rather couple-y. I click on the link, and I'm brought to a blog; _AllThingsLester_. Of course blogs like that existed. The article seemed to be written fairly recently, and the title of the article is big and loud and bold.

 **Is Dan Howell, pianist, Phil Lester's newest love interest?**

I stare in surprise, and actually keep reading.

 _Dan Howell, son of the scientific celeb Howell duo, has risen to fame in recent years for his unique piano music that has topped the charts for quite some time. However, he has yet to come forward about any relationships. Not going to lie, he hasn't come forward about much of anything! He's a very private star._

I pause. So far it's been true, though it hasn't mentioned Phil yet.

 _Phil Lester, on the other hand, is bold and open about his relationships, as he seems to be in a new one every week! But despite all his fellow stars he's dated, Phil has yet to woo Dan._

I smirk. Definitely true.

 _The young men have previously been thought to have no connection, despite Lester going on the record back in May claiming he loves Howell's music and would be overjoyed to meet him [source], but were spotting walking this October afternoon in the midst of London crowds._

I pause again. When did Phil say he wanted to meet me? I make note of checking that source later on, and continue to read. It's a decently written article, I rationalize, so I'm not betraying my promise to avoid the media. Besides, I'm fairly curious to see what's said about me and Phil.

 _A variety of photos have surfaced of the two of them, though neither Howell nor Lester have said anything. Many are saying the two are just friends, though we here at AllThingsLester say otherwise. Anyone can see it, in the way Lester looks at Howell, that he is smitten. Howell seems a bit more laid back, but appears to be amused with Lester's antics. It looks like a comfortable, casual relationship. Not to mention, the pair looks perfect together! Phil isn't exactly one for steady relationships, but could this handsome singer/pianist change that? Is this the start of a beautiful relationship? Or has this been going on for a while? Either way, it's looking like a ship has begun to sail!_

"Oh, bloody hell." I mutter. Of course this had to happen. _Of fucking course_. And I'll have to avoid him at the party, too. I groan loudly, the noise bouncing off the walls of the empty flat. I hate that boy so much.

 **A/N: Hey guys! Hope you liked the 'latest installment' of You Don't Hate Me! I'm really enjoying writing this, so let me know what you guys think! Bye!**


	3. Chapter 3

Dan's POV

Leon's party is already in full swing when I arrive. As soon as I step into the huge flat, I regret every decision leading up to this. It's horridly dark and all I can see are dancing bodies when the flashing lights, all vibrant and neon, graze over the crowd. The music pounds in my ears.

I make a beeline towards where I assume the food is. Sure enough, the open kitchen is stocked with food, all laid out in pile and stacks and fancy plates. It's excessive for a casual party such as this, but if Leon is anything, it's excessive.

There's more alcohol than food, however, which is a staple of Leon's parties. Every now and then he sets up a little bar with a bartender and such, but not today. I pour myself a drink of whatever's in the nearest bottle, as it's much too dark to tell, but don't take a drink and instead resume my usual pose of leaning against a wall silently, judging everyone.

I haven't been standing there for more than ten minutes when I notice Phil. He has one arm slung around a pretty girl with fiery red hair, the other holding an open bottle. He keeps waving his hands around, so a wave of sympathy comes over me for Leon for when he has to clean up all the spilled beer.

Phil's dressed in one of his typical ensembles, with black skinny jeans and a brightly colored tee. He's gesturing wildly to what I assume is another one of his crazy stories, the mismatched gathering of men and women around him finding it hilarious. His hair is mussed and crazy. I notice the girl under his arm is standing awfully close to him. I imagine her running her hands through his dark hair, and jealousy surges through my limbs.

Jealousy? What is wrong with me? I look away, anywhere but Phil and the girl with the head of fire. I stare down at my cup, where liquid sloshes. Just as I'm taking a swig, a short man stumbles up to me, looking half awake. I swallow the drink, savoring the way it burns down my throat and makes things a bit fuzzy, and stare down at him. Leon.

In reality, he's actually not that short. He's probably average height. But as a six foot tall man, everyone seems short. A tiny thought in the back of my mind says that Phil is definitely not short. I push it away.

"Danny!" Leon slurs excitedly. I make a face, somewhere between a grin and a grimace.

"Hey, Lee. Why do you insist on getting drunk at your own parties?" I ask calmly. Leon gasps dramatically. Even when sober he's a drama queen.

"I am not drunk!" He exclaims indignantly, though he tries to step forward and stumbles a bit. "The party has just started! We aren't even halfway to drunk! We need a competition!" He throws his arms up and almost loses his balance. I set my drink on a nearby table and steady him. He grins toothily at me.

"Whaddya say, Danny? Drinks? Drinks? Drinks?" He asks loudly, getting closer to my face, standing on his toes, with every word. On a typical day, I would refuse. I wouldn't even humor him. But today is an off day.

"Fuck yeah." I say, plastering on a fake grin and push his shoulders down so he's no longer on his toes. "Let's do it."

I am so going to regret this.

 _Three hours later…_

Phil's POV

Blogs and fan pages are already calling it something. We already have a ship name, and all I did was walk with him _. Phan_ , they're calling it. A combination of Dan and Phil, two boys with opposite haircuts and heights too tall for their own good. I secretly don't mind it. Although I' finding the whole, 'Love Eyes Lester' thing a bit odd. Am I really that obvious?

Because, in all honestly, I've always admired Dan. Not in a, 'I've been in love with him since I was twelve' way, more so a, 'I admire his parents work and his music is outstanding and hey he's kind of cute too' way. I mentioned earlier in the year it would be great to meet him, though I never expected our first encounter to be quite the collision. He has a hard head.

When I started talking, though, I just couldn't stop. He stayed silent and I just talked and talked and talked. Dan saying he hated me didn't bother me much, as it seemed he hated everyone. But I don't just ramble on about random stuff to someone who, really, is a stranger. I don't talk to anyone about the nerdy side of me. And I mean anyone. Yet for some reason I felt comfortable with Dan, casual. Everything was just so simple. So easy. And he quickly changed from just that cute piano guy with the scientific parents to a tall, gorgeous friend. Though I doubt he thinks of me as a friend. But I'm beginning to think that maybe I don't want to be friends. I want to be more.

I had considered asking him to Leon's party, but he, of course, would already be going. I brought my cousin Bridget instead, just for the sake of bringing someone. She had never been to a party with so many celebrities before, so she was over the moon when I invited her. But when Dan got to the party, he brought no one.

Earlier, I had noticed him, when Leon had loudly challenged him to a drink-off. I lost track of him, however, and Bridget was clinging to me like a scared leech, so, three hours and thirteen minutes later, after sending Bridget home in an Uber, I have no idea where he is. I saw Leon stumble to the bathroom about ten minutes ago, but Dan was nowhere to be found. Concern overtakes any thought I have for socializing, which I don't even want to do, and I begin the hunt for the tall boy.

I nudge my way through the swarms of people and search the kitchen, the gigantic lounge, even Leon's office. No Dan.

I move onto the bathrooms and spare bedrooms. Still no Dan. I poke my head into the master bedroom, and then the bathroom of that. Yet again, no Dan. I hurry back into the lounge and push through the crowds of people (how does Leon even fit all these people into his house?) until I reach a slight clearing. I peer around, my eyes picking apart everyone in the room. My eyes fall on the furniture. There's a boy, resting against one of the sofas. I squint. _Dan_. He looks almost dead in the dark light, with his crumpled clothing and messy hair. He appears to be half awake, and as I hurry towards him and kneel down, his eyelids flicker. Definitely not dead.

Dan's POV

Fuzzy gray shadows dance in front of my eyes. Clouds of color swiftly pass me by, but all I see are horrifying burst of red and orange and pink, blurred with too-bright shades of blue and green. My vision is rimmed with black. Shadows seem to seep out of the walls and close in on me, dripping from the humanoid shapes in the room and attempt to swallow me whole. Where am I?

I close my eyes, with a hope to block out the vaguely human-shaped creatures of rainbows and shadow. There's a persistent buzzing in my ears that won't go away. Through the bees in my ears and my groggy state, I can hear the thumping of a bass in a distant stereo. A headache begins to pound, like a hammer in my skull.

Over the humming, voices grow and shrink. Too quiet or too loud, deep or high, feminine or masculine, but never silent. Lights flash over the voices and musical noise, scarring my eyes through their closed lids. Talk about sensory overload.

I'm at a party. I think. Why am I at a party? I open my eyes, and the violently twinkling lights become ten times stronger. I hear noise in waves, but I feel as though cotton has been stuffed in my ears. No longer is there a buzzing, but a clear ringing sound that the cotton won't cut out. Bile rises in my throat, and I resist the urge to lurch over and empty the contents of my stomach on the floor.

"I blink a few times, attempting to rid myself of the stormy clouds blocking my line of sight. I slowly look round, careful not to disturb my aching head more than absolutely necessary. I'm definitely at a party. I'm in a vaguely familiar flat, where someone's rigged up a disco ball to the ceiling, fairy lights twinkle on the wall, obnoxiously bright, and someone plays music too loudly for the sake of my eardrums. Whose party am I at?

I shift, and notice my back is against a sofa on a polished wooden floor. The couch is a soft fabric with an expensive feel to it, and my feet are resting on a small shag rug that looks nearly identical to the one in my flat. Leon's party, I realize upon seeing the rug. One of Leon's bimonthly celebrations. Would it be bimonthly? Or biweekly? My head hurts. What are we even celebrating?

The shadows grow once again, and I have to blink and shake my head multiple times, which sends knives into my brain, to hazily observe my surroundings once again.

I stare at a coffee table in front of me, wondering why they didn't just make the whole thing metal, or vice versa. Why glass _and_ metal? Why metal _and_ glass? The beat of the music kicks up again, and excited shouts break over the fluff and the ringing in my ears. My head is throbbing, and I slowly watch the shadows cloud over my vision again. Everything is so dark. Why is everything so dark?

I glance around feverishly, but I can't seem to process anything I see, if I do see anything at all. It's just so dark. So, so dark.

I lay my head back, scrunching my eyes closed tight and praying to anything that I'll just pass out instead of being forced to endure the torture of the party any longer. The shadows close in, but sleep is a long way away.

I vaguely remember Leon and I drinking, and stumbling to the toilet to throw up. I think I won the competition, though. I reckon I collapsed by the sofa, dizzy from all the alcohol, throat on fire, and just fell asleep. That's sensible, right?

The noise surrounding has faded to a dull roar, but the ringing vibrates throughout my skull. It's almost intolerable. I clench my jaw, resisting the horrifically strong urge to scream.

I suddenly feel two strong hands clamp down on my shoulders. A deep, clear and definitely Northern voice pierces through the dim veil of noise and lights. Aren't we in London?

"Dan?" The voice says, questioning and concerned. I force open my eyes. Kneeling in front of me is none other than Phil Lester. I think back to earlier in the night, when he his arm around that girl with the hair like a match. I hate this boy. Don't I?

Gone, however, is the coquettish grin, which I had assumed was a permanent fixture on his gracefully sculpted features? His eyes have never looked so blue. It's like they're endlessly deep, and they glimmer with a compassion and kindness I don't understand. Why is he looking at me like that? I never would think something so soft, so sweet, so kind would come from careless, famous, ladies' man Philip Lester. I think back to that afternoon. Details are hazy, but I remember his smile. He shined when he smiled. He looked like the sun. A sun you wanted to look at, a sun you wanted to appreciate the warmth and glimmer of. Maybe?

His perfect lips are pressed in an exceptionally straight line. I want to kiss those lips. His forehead is creased with worry, but I feel my lips begin to smile. The fog has not lifted from over my mind and my eyes, but the presence of Phil and his handsome face make everything seem a bit more bearable.

"I hate you," I mumble. His lips become an even straighter line. "I hate you and your perfect, kissable, wonderful lips." His lips part slightly when I say this, and a tiny gasp is audible. They look even more kissable now. Is kissable a word? My smile grows.

I feel Phil's arms wrap underneath mine and hoist me up. Hardly aware of what's going on, I drape myself over Phil and stumble in what I think is in the vague direction.

I like being this close to Phil. He smells nice, all masculine and perfect. Again, I feel the need to kiss him.

People slow and stop, attempting to talk to Phil, maybe even me, but Phil looks determined. He responds to no one. My mind is together enough now to wonder what the hell is going on.

We're pushing through the dark and the crowd and my ears are ringing and suddenly we're outside the flat. The lights are unexpectedly solid and still, and when the door shuts behind us all is quiet but for the sounds of our breathing. I expect Phil to let go of me, but I'm glad when he doesn't. I'm unstable and confused and need as much support as he has to offer.

Walls and lights and doors blur together as Phil drags me along. We end up outside, and I am once again dreadfully confused as I'm assaulted by new lights and sounds and colors. I hear Phil begin to say soothing nothings in a calming voice, but words stick together. I appreciate the thought, though, even if I can't make out a third of what he's saying. His voice drones on, and I realize the ringing has faded to the back of my head. I can breathe. I lift my face to the sky and stare at the stars. The sky is dark, but the stars are beautiful and there's so many. I attempt to blink away the artificial lights of the city. I just want to look at the stars.

Phil has begun pulling me along again, and I direct my gaze down. He still has that determined look about him, but his concern is more prominent. I notice him flickering his blue, blue eyes towards me every few seconds. I do not know how to feel about this.

I'm being nudged into a car now, and I take one last look at the ever-expanding night sky before clumsily sliding in.

If I had been fully functioning and sober, I would've stopped to see what, exactly, I was getting myself into. But I'm not, and all I know is that I'm in a big car, and Phil is next to me, closing the door behind him. The clouds resurface for probably the last time.

"I hate you." I mumble as I lean into Phil, cold all of a sudden; he radiates warmth. He chuckles softly.

"You don't hate me." He replies, his voice quiet. I close my eyes.

"Yeah I am." I say. _Dan_ , a voice at the corner of my brain says. _That makes no fucking sense_. Phil laughs again. I nestle my head into his shoulder, and I feel him tense then relax and shift underneath my heavy head. The lights in the car dim, and we're suddenly moving (of course Phil Lester has a goddamn chauffeur).

"Please don't murder me while I'm asleep," I whisper, my words sticking together. The last thing I hear before I slip into an oblivion-like sleep is Phil's quiet laugh. I think I feel his arm wrapping around my shoulders almost protectively, but I'm too far gone to be sure.

 **A/N: Wow! I typed up both this chapter and Chapter Two today. *is slightly proud of self* Hope you guys enjoyed!**


	4. Chapter 4

Dan's POV

I wake up in an unfamiliar bed with a pounding head and a strong, masculine scent surrounding me. It's dark and quiet behind my eyelids, despite my raging thoughts and aching temple, and the idea of opening my eyes to face a world of confusion and lights makes me almost nauseous.

I finally peel open my eyes. I'm underneath a pile of blankets, the topmost one a blue and green duvet. It has squares of bright colors and I find myself blushing. I have the same duvet in black and grey. Why the hell am I blushing?

I stare at the ceiling. It's been plastered with photos, magazine clippings, and artwork. Layers upon layers of pictures poke through. It must've taken literal years to create such a collage. I recognize quite a few band logos and familiar stickers, but what really strikes my attention is the reoccurring person in the majority of the photos.

I squint with my bleary eyes and make out pale skin and black hair (some pictures it's shaggy and long, the more recent ones much shorter) and wide eyes. They're all the same boy, with different haircuts and different people. Confusion snakes its way through my mind as I realize slowly who it could be. Am I in Phil Lester's bed?

I jerk myself up into a sitting position and whip my head around the room. The bed is pressed into the corner of the room, the end a few feet away from the door. Lining the wall next to the door are bookshelves crammed with either chaotically organized DVDs and video games, or a variety of books. A small, flat screen television clings to the wall above the bookshelf nearest to the door, and a PlayStation wobbles precariously on a jumbled pile of plastic game cases. A controller is strewn among random papers, knickknacks, and candies underneath the TV.

To the left of the bed, there's a small bedside table housing an empty mug, an opened and empty case for glasses, and an old-fashioned alarm clock. There's a laundry basket draped with clothing next to that, and a humongous wardrobe dresser _thing_ that takes of the opposite corner of the room.

On the final wall, there's a desk scattered with even more papers and little knickknacks, just like the bookshelves. Posters for anime, movies, and bands have been layered over one another, and pictures have been tacked over those. A bit of paled dark blue paint peeps out from the rare, tiny bare spots on the walls. A string of lights dangles over the desk, and are the only source of light as they are lit in a warm caramel glow. Books are in small stacks scatted throughout the room and over the floor, as are various articles of clothing.

The posters advertise movies _I_ would watch, or bands _I_ actually listen to, so really the only evidence I have that this is Phil Lester's bedroom are the photographs of him and other people that are literally everywhere.

I glance over to the door, and my stomach sinks. In big cardboard letters painted probably by a ten year old, the name 'PHIL' is spelled out colorfully along with more pictures. How does someone have _that_ many pictures of themselves with so many different people? I am definitely in Phil Lester's bed.

My theory is quickly proven correct. Someone knocks on the door, and I flop back down on the bed.

"Dan?" the obnoxiously familiar voice calls out, muffled by the door. He knocks again before twisting the knob and stepping inside. It is indeed Phil Lester.

He's holding a glass of water, and he's wearing glasses. Phil Lester wears glasses? Why is he wearing glasses? The glasses case is starting make much more sense. He's wearing dark jeans that I'd assume are black and a red flannel-y plaid shirt, and he's wearing crazy socks, too. His sleeves are pushed up, and his hair is a bit mussed. Phil Lester wears _glasses_?

"Oh, you're awake!" he says, his voice almost excited. He looks really good in glasses. He walks over to the bed and sets down the glass of water. He stand there awkwardly, a blush present on his pale cheeks. "I figured you'd be massively hungover, so I was going to bring you some carbonated water, but then the internet said the sugars in it would just make you thirstier. Hope it's okay it's just water instead."

"Phil." I say. I don't know why I say it. My voice is a little raspy. A hangover, huh? No surprise.

Phil looks at me with concern and steps forward a tiny steps. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands now that he's not holding a glass. He keeps tucking them in his pockets and pulling them out, then tucking them into his back pockets and pulling them out, and the cycle just keeps going around.

" _Phil_." I say again. "You're-you're wearing glasses."

"I am. And you're wearing half the contents of a bar."

I stare up at Phil, hoping in a way is defiant and collected. He looks down at me, a stern smile on his face. Stern? What position is he in to be making faces like that?

I sit up again and rub my eyes before grabbing the glass of water and swallowing the whole thing down. When I catch Phil's eye as he stares at me, I raise a brow and say with a sarcastic smile, "It's important to stay hydrated."

Phil laughs. An actual, real, great laugh. His eyes crinkle when he laughs like that, and he does this little grin thing with his tongue between his teeth. I want to kiss him again. Wait. What? _Again?!_

I set the glass down and look up at Phil, who's still standing awkwardly next to the bed. "What the hell happened?"

"I'd suggest you shower before I go into details. You weren't even _at_ an alcohol place and you smell like a liquor store." Phil says calmly. He tucks his hands into his back pockets again and actually keeps them there. "Bathrooms down the hall to the left."

I push off the blankets, glaring at Phil, and swing my legs off the bed. I leave the room quickly, and when I glance behind me Phil is still standing in his room with his hands tucked behind him, but watching me. I turn back and yank open the first door on the left in the hall. A towel closet. I flush with embarrassment but grab one of the fluffy grey towels before slamming it shut and moving onto the next door. _This_ is the bathroom. I step in and slam the door shut behind me, cringing at the loud noise.

I look around me. Phil's room had been cluttered and nerdy, and the hallway had been, well, just a plain hallway. The bathroom, however, was stark and modern and only held a few bits and pieces of actual human life.

A huge tiled shower with a large glass wall and door took up the majority of one side of the bathroom, whilst a shiny white toilet and large sink/vanity thing pressed against the other side. A mirror spanned the entire wall. A small window sat directly across from the door, and a tiny cactus in a shiny white pot stood short and squat in the windowsill corner. A bright blue toothbrush sat in the holder and an elaborate black razor sat on a special stand next to it, but other than that the bathroom was bare.

I only then realize I'm in my underwear and a white tee shirt that I typically only wear underneath clothing. Jesus Christ. My face flames red angrily as I realize why, and because of who exactly, I wasn't wearing much clothing. I hate the boy so much.

 _*post-shower*_

Phil's POV

I sit comfortably in one of the old, overstuffed chairs in the lounge as I wait for Dan to finish up in the bathroom. I had slipped in some clothes while he was showering, along with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and mini mouthwash container. I had run out as soon as I heard the water start running, and made it through the store remarkably quick. I even found a black toothbrush. Now, however, I just had to wait.

The door opens, and out steps an exceptionally curly haired Daniel Howell. He's still messing with his hair with the towel, but curls were everywhere. I smile. He's wearing an old sweatshirt of mine, along with some grey sweatpants and blue socks patterned with sharks. He does not look happy.

He glances down the hall to my bedroom, the looks the other way and locks eye contact with me in the lounge.

"You can just throw the towel in the bathroom," I call out. "I'll deal with it later." At this he gives me a disbelieving look but tosses it back into the bathroom before padding into the lounge. He looks around at the old, mismatched furniture surrounding a grey rug and a huge television before he flops down on a black loveseat next to the whitish-silver chair I'm sitting in.

"Everything in here has a retro vibe to it," he remarks casually, breaking up the silence. He refuses to make eye contact. "Besides the TV, obviously."

"Thanks?" I say uncertainly. He nods, staring glumly at the rug and leaning forward in his seat with his hands clasped in front of him. I clear my throat after a moment of hesitation, and he glances up at me. His deep brown eyes grab a hold of mine, and I temporarily forget what I was saying.

"Uh, do you want to know about the party?" I say, voice unsure. Dan groans and leans back, hands covering his face.

"I was at a party?" he asks, grumbling through his fingers. I can't help but laugh a little at the sight.

"Leon Tucker's, to be specific." I inform him, a bit of my typical cheer seeping back into my voice. Dan groans again.

"Bloody hell. What happened?"

I grin. "You got in a competition with Lee. And you drank a lot. And then I found you passed out on the floor all alone and brought you home like the gentleman I am."

Dan pulled his hands away from his face for long enough to glare at me. "Gentleman?" he asked. His voice sounds mocking. I smile at him in return.

"Yes, Daniel. A gentleman. Imagine what would've happened if I hadn't been there to rescue you?" I say, grinning. He rolls his eyes.

"You told me I had kissable lips."

Dan gasps, almost screeching. "I did _not_!"

I smile smugly. "Believe it or not, Danny. It's the truth."

"What time is it?" He growls at me. I pull out my phone.

"5:07 in the morning." I say.

Unsurprisingly, Dan groans once again.

"You should sleep here until it's bright enough to go home. And you're not hungover." I suggest. Dan scowls at me in return.

"I'm going home." He tells me boldly, standing up.

"Then I'm coming with you." I say, my voice equally defiant as I also stand. He glares at me for a number of seconds before sighing a loud, "ugh fine."

"Besides," I say brightly. "You're wearing my clothes."

Dan raises an eyebrow. "I could take them off."

"You would literally be completely naked," I reply, before adding slyly, "Not that I would complain." As expected, Dan's face flushes crimson.

I quickly gather up all of Dan's things, which are somehow scattered around my small flat, and stuff them together in a bag. I hand it to Dan, who's just standing there uselessly. He's beginning to look a lot more tired.

"Drink another glass of water before we go." I say, then stride to my room to get my shoes and coat.

 _One silent car ride later…_

Dan's POV

"I still don't see why you had to come along." I say to Phil, who's staring around my flat in awe. I toss my keys onto the kitchen island and poke around the cupboards until I find a glass. I pour myself a glass of water and turn to look at Phil, who's wandering around, admiring everything.

"I'm pretty sure you make more than I do," I say after a moment. "You could buy a place just like this." Phil, who was looking at the rug in the lounge, turns and stares at me. He begins to walk towards me.

"What would be the point? I'd only want to live here if I was living with someone else." He stares at me intensely. I was smart enough to tell that there was some sort of hidden meaning in those words. Phil's eyes shine as he stares me down. I swallow, suddenly feeling nervous. I set my glass down on the island. When did he get so close to me? He's still wearing his glasses, but the intensity of his stare is unmarred. If anything, it's stronger.

"Oh really?" I ask faintly. "Who?"

He laughs quietly. "Who knows?" His eyes search mine. "Maybe a boy with curly brown hair and gorgeous brown eyes."

My throat feels dry, and I can't seem to form words. Then, just as suddenly as he stepped towards me, he steps away and turns to go down the hall. He begins to walk, but glances back one last time and says, "Thank you, by the way, Dan. It's nice to know you think about how kissable my lips are."

He steps into a guest room, and then he's gone, leaving me alone with my confused emotions and wildly beating heart.

 **A/N: HEY I'm BACK! Hope everyone enjoyed that! Though that was not as good as I had hoped it would be, it was super amusing to write. Did anyone get my** _ **Carry On, Simon**_ **reference? Let me know! That's all for now; see all you lovelies later!**


	5. Chapter 5

Dan's POV

I stare at the door in which Phil disappeared and wonder for probably the tenth time _what the_ _hell_ I was doing.

I wander down the hall after I collect my frayed emotions and push open the guest door. I suppose I could've knocked, but it _is_ my house, after all.

Phil is sprawled over the guest bed, blankets somehow already tangled. He's holding his phone above his face, and he's lit up in a pale, blueish light.

"Why are you even here?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe. Phil's eyes flicker over the screen once more and he taps a few different icons, before clicking it off and tossing the phone aside. He turns his head to look at me.

"I'm spending the night. Or, morning, technically." He replies simply, as if it's a completely normal thing for him to be laying in my guest bedroom. He's still wearing those glasses and his brilliant blue eyes bore into mine. I sigh.

"It is too early and I am too tired to be dealing with this," I say. "Just... Don't make a lot of noise, okay?" Phil's eyes widen a bit more at every word, like he's surprised I'm even allowing him to stay. I am too, in all honesty, but I just want to get to sleep.

"O-okay," he replies after a moment of hesitation. He stares at me with wide eyes as I give him a brief nod and step out of the room. I pad down the hall towards my room, but pause before I enter. I turn my head and look back through the ajar door. No more cellphone light leaks out, and I allow myself to smile. As much as I hate the guy, Phil needs some sleep too.

I slip into my room and close the door, exhaustion overcoming me. It takes all I have in me not to collapse right then and there and sleep on the ground.

With no energy to change into pajamas, I stumble over to my bed. I almost trip at least three times on my way there; why do I have so much clothing on the ground?

I fall into bed, yanking the unmade covers over me. I curl up, attempting to get comfortable. As the tendrils of sleep surrounds me, I subconsciously snuggle into the hoodie Phil lent me. _It smells like him_ , I realize, and I snuggle even deeper into it, wrapping it around me securely. _It's nice_ , I vaguely think, and I drift off to sleep.

…

I slept rather fitfully despite being ridiculously tired, so my amount of actually successful sleeping varied throughout the morning. Around 9:30, I awoke to soft tapping on my door. I groaned and glared around me groggily. The shades were pulled, so light was scarce. Or, it was, until Phil poked his head into my room, asking, "Dan? Are you awake?"

"Ergh. I am now," I grumbled, attempting to rub the sleep from my eyes as I sat up. No such luck. Phil then scrambled into the room, and literally tried to push me back down into my bed.

"No, no! Go back to sleep!" He said hurriedly, tucking blankets back around me. In any situation, a grown man tucking me into my bed would be incredibly awkward and hella strange, but Phil just seemed to be trying to comfort me. "I just wanted to tell you I'm heading out."

My heart seemed to speed up. I searched for words, but he hurried on. "I'll be back in like thirty minutes, okay? I've just got some stuff I need to do."

I nodded slowly. He gave me a small smile before ducking back out of the room and closing the door, enveloping the room in nearly complete darkness.

"What are you doing, Dan Howell?" I asked myself aloud. Obviously I got no response. I sighed and turned over, breathing in the now-familiar scent of the sweatshirt. _What is it about that sweatshirt_?

Strangely enough, I sleep uninterrupted and peacefully after that. Until I wake up to pots clanging and male singing dreadfully loud (at an absolutely _ungodly_ hour, might I add) coming from the direction of my kitchen. My alarm clock reads 11:23. Guess this means Phil's back.

Phil's POV

I'm singing a mashup of what might be one of Dan's songs and a cheesy love song from the eighties and attempting to make brunch when Dan finally wakes up and wanders into his kitchen.

I had woken up a few hours earlier with a plan to make a nice breakfast for Dan in an attempt to get him to _actually_ like me, but discovered Dan had hardly _anything_ in his cupboards. He had all his high-end pans that most stars like him probably have that probably cost a fortune, lots of strangely shiny cutlery that were so glossy they were practically gleaming, and casual drinking glasses made of crystal, so one would think he would have lots of food for such wonderful utensils, right? Wrong. His pantries were practically bare save a few boxes of cereal, microwave ramen noodles, and frozen meals in the freezer.

So I went out and grabbed everything I could possibly need for a great brunch along with some other necessities Dan was somehow lacking (four boxes of cereal and not a single carton of milk. Why, Dan? Why?!) but somehow managed to not buy everything I needed to make waffles. So I went out again, just to find myself standing in front of the raspberries at 10:30 in the morning, realizing I wasn't even in the mood for waffles to begin with!

I went back to Dan's flat and decided on pancakes and eggs with bacon and fruit, unsure of what exactly he would like most.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dan's groggy voice asks from the other side of the island, causing me to freeze in the middle of a high note as I pour milk for a second batch of pancakes.

"Good morning to you-" I begin, whirling around, but my jaw goes slack upon seeing Dan. "-too," I breathe. He stands at the opposite corner of the huge island with bleary eyes and curly hair. He's yawning, stretching his arms, _ohmygodhe'swearingmysweatshirtandthat'shisstomachohmygod_! My mind seems to go hyperactive, and my heart is racing. He's still wearing the clothes I len't him. That means he slept in them. He _slept_ in my _sweatshirt_?

 _Philip_ , I chide myself silently. _You are a grown man. Relax_. I clear my throat and announce, "I'm making you brunch."

Dan stares at me in confusion, then disbelief, then confusion again. It's actually rather amusing watching his face switch between the different emotions. He scratches his neck awkwardly. "Um. Why?"

I blink. "Why wouldn't I?" I ask. Now it's my turn to be confused. Hasn't anyone made him brunch before? "This is what friends are for!"

Dan's face goes blank. _Oh no. Did I say something wrong?_ He looks at me, brown eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. A strange pink is slowly spreading over his cheeks, and he quickly looks away and down at his stockinged feet. "I've never had a friend like that." His voice is soft, and reveals well-hidden pain that breaks my heart.

"Well, you've got me now!" I say, attempting to brighten him up. His looks back at me quizzically.

"I've told you I hate you at least ten times now, Phil." He says, some of his sarcasm taking place of his gloom.

I raise my eyebrows and direct my gaze at his- _my_ -hoodie suggestively. "I wouldn't be so sure of that."

His eyes widen even more as he looks down, and glares at me when it clicks. "Oh, fuck off, Lester."

I just laugh.

 **A/N: Hello peeps I am back wuddup! Hope you enjoyed this short and simple and kinda cute (?) chapter of You Don't Hate Me! I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this story but I've got a hazy plot idea, so there's still more coming. Okie dokie see you beauties later goodbye goodbye**


End file.
